Hit the jump right now because I want to start swearing immediately.

What the fuck is this? WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS? Are you shitting me, ESPN? ARE YOU PEOPLE FUCKING BLIND AND DEAF?

This is a real thing. I swear to you. DJ Gallo didn’t make this as a Photoshop just as some kind of sick joke. ESPN actually did this. Why? BECAUSE THEY ARE FUCKS AND I HOPE THEY BURN IN GODDAMN HELL. ALL OF THEM. Chad Millman, who is the editor of ESPN The Shitheap, needs to be tied to a post and lashed with a dead stingray for this. This is fucking horrible. This is White Vick with a fucking House of Pain tattoo grafted on for good measure. Did you people NOT get the fucking memo? Were you not aware that the entire goddamn world hates you already for overcovering Boston sports? Did you not know that there are entire sites like this one that were founded specifically to act as a counterbalance to your ongoing and utterly baffling provincialism? WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?

Even Dan Snyder isn’t this culturally tone deaf. The entire ESPN brand mission now is apparently to piss off as many people as possible as quickly as possible. “Durrrrr, everyone’s sick of us covering the Red Sox, let’s do a Boston issue! Durrrrr, everyone thinks Colin Cowherd molests dead children, let’s put him on the air ALL THE TIME! Durrrrr, more Ron Jaworski opera voice! That’ll really kick everyone in the nuts!” Why not just change the magazine name to BSTN? Or fuck it, change the whole goddamn network’s name to BSTN, then hire Shank and Ron Borges and every other hack who has kissed Ted Williams’ frozen head, and go all the way with it? YOU KNOW IT’S WHAT YOU WANT TO DO ANYWAY.

Let’s just take a look at every horrible element of the cover. It’s like my kid took a shit into a kaleidoscope tube. “America’s Most Dominant Sports City.” Why are you gloating about Boston FOR Boston? They don’t need your help to be cunts.

And this goddamn subhead.

Four teams. Seven titles. Ten years. Do the math.

What math? There’s no math to be done here. It’s just counting. Am I supposed to add those numbers together to get some kind of proprietary CBR rating? Congrats, Boston! You have 21! BLACKJACK. NOW GO FUCKING DIE.

Inside the Boston Issue.

So it’s a whole issue? Why? Why does it need a theme? This is worse than Deadspin Comedy Week. No one asked for this. If I want a whole issue of Boston sports, I can read some asshole Boston magazine, like BOSTON or QUINZEE SIKH RAPE ILLUSTRATED.

Is Tom Brady too pretty?

Again, that’s real. Is he too pretty? DOES HE LACK THE REQUISITE GRITTINESS OF OW-AH FACKIN’ WAHLBERGIAN PAWPULATION? Maybe he’s too gay, and NO ONE IN MASSACHUSETTS IS GAY OR ANYTHING. Oh no! We have the best QB of the 21st century BUT HE’S TOO FAGGY FOR US! WAHHHHHH WAHHHHHH.

New York Sucks, by Denis Leary

Oh, thank God. Because here it was unclear to me that Denis Leary wasn’t a Boston fan. Hey Denis, here’s every episode of “Rescue Me”:

LENNY CLARKE: Tommy, stop drinking!

TOMMY: Screw you!

LENNY CLARKE: Ah, I’m just giving you shit!

TOMMY: Me too! Now let’s go drink and give each other MORE shit and that’s the episode! 9/11 9/11 9/11.

This Whole Issue Is A Bad Idea, by Bill Simmons

Of course. Of course you’d try and distance yourself from something obnoxious and somehow make yourself MORE obnoxious in the process. God dammit, you people fucking SUCK. All of you. Simmons and Affleck and Wahlberg and whoever the fuck thought that THIS, this Northeastern Alleyway Abortion was a good idea. Fuck you, ESPN. DIE. Die forever.

We’re now in the dreaded post-draft stretch of the NFL offseason. There’s no real football on, and there still won’t be for weeks. You’re hurt. You’re angry. You’re hateful. We understand. At KSK, hating things is what we do best, which is why we have the offseason series, This Week In F–k You. This week: Screen doors.

I have a screen door at the entrance of my house. Like most every piece of shit screen door in the world, it has two pumping mechanisms attached at the top and bottom so that it automatically closes after you open it. I haven’t taken these pneumatic pumping mechanisms off the door, and I don’t know why I haven’t, because SCREEN DOORS WILL FUCK YOU IN THE ASS.

Why the fuck are these things designed to automatically close anyway? Has anyone anywhere ever gone through life without being forcibly assaulted by a fucking screen door on multiple occasions? I have a regular door in front of the screen door and I never forget to keep it closed, lest my home be invaded by cicadas or hot air or burglars or frotteurs or cunts from Verizon. The regular door TRUSTS that I will close it. The screen door offers no such faith. It just stands there, ready at all times to fucking ruin my shit any time someone in front of me lets it go unexpectedly. It’s a door designed BY retards FOR retards.

Ever get hit by a screen door? Does it not make you want to rip the fucking thing off its hinges and stomp it into oblivion? Screen doors are so rude when they hit you. “HEADS UP FUCKFACE HERE I COME BANG BANG BANG HOW WAS THAT?” You flimsy piece of dogshit! You ruined my summer! I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU.

And those fucking little metal things you slide to try and keep the door open? WORTHLESS. Not only do they fail to keep the door open. No, no. They hold the door open just long enough so that you THINK they’ll work, only to immediately slide back into place the second you pass through. Oh, I’m sorry. Were you trying to walk into your own home? WELL FUCK YOU, SKIPPY. I’m tired of having to reach up and down and get axel grease all over my fingers trying to get these things into the exact right position. They don’t work, and they’re on screen doors EVERYWHERE, like some kind of herpetic virus. Why are they there? Because the people who make them think you’re too stupid to remember to close the door yourself. They’re an indictment of our national intellect, is what they are.

There’s no reason the default setting for screen doors can’t be the same as normal doors. There’s no reason I should have to spend every grocery trip dreading the return home and having to keep the fucking screen door open while I try and maneuver into the house with four grocery bags in my hand, because I ain’t making two trips. That’s for suckers. Half my parenting life is spent holding the goddamn door open for myself or for kids or for some shit that I have to jam into the house. I’m sick of it. I’m taking those fucking pumps off the door right now, because screen doors are bullshit. You hear me? BULLSHIT.

We’re now in the dreaded post-draft stretch of the NFL offseason. There’s no football on, and there still won’t be for months. You’re hurt. You’re angry. You’re hateful. We understand. At KSK, hating things is what we do best, which is why we have the offseason series, This Week In F–k You. This week: Child car seats.

There are many reasons to not have children. They poop. They cry. They cost unfathomable amounts of money. And sometimes, they run up to you and shriek into your ear as loudly as possible, causing your eardrum to nearly rupture, and you want to turn around and punch them right in the fucking face because Lord knows they EARNED it, but you can’t because that would make you a bad person even though you TOTALLY would have been justified. So there’s that.

But above all else, the main reason to never, ever have kids is child car seats. With the notable exceptions of the wedding industry and the Disney corporation, the child car seat industry is the single most evil business enterprise in the universe, an industry that will rob you blind and FUCK YOUR BACK TO DEATH in the process.

You “need” three different car seats for each child you have. Three. When they’re young, they need the baby carrier with the snap-in base. When they outgrow that, they need a toddler seat. And when they outgrow that, they need a booster seat. Current safety guidelines mandate that a child stay in a booster seat until eight to twelve years old. TWELVE FUCKING YEARS OLD! What the fuck? When I was a child, my parents strapped me to the fender and I LIKED IT! No wonder we’ve raised an entire generation that thinks Linkin Park constitutes acceptable music. Recent studies have shown that car seats aren’t really any safer for kids over 2 than a normal-ass seat belt. Granted, that research comes from “Superfreakonomics,” but it totally works with this rant, so fuck it. I’m using it. MY PROOF IS IRONCLAD.

This is how these car seat people screw you into paying top dollar for their cumbersome pieces of plastic dogshit. Sure, you could put your kid in a normal seat belt. IF YOU DON’T CARE ABOUT THEIR SAFETY. I bet you’re full of vodka when you drive them around, aren’t you? BECAUSE YOU’RE COUNTRY LIKE THAT. I guess you don’t care if another car comes and t-bones yours, causing your poor child’s ribcage to shatter and their little tiny skull to be crushed like a melon. SOME PARENT YOU ARE. PONY UP, FUCKFACE.

And no wife in the world will ever let you spring for a cheap car seat. What’s that? You want the $30 Target generic car seat? NOT FOR MY BABY. No, no. We’re gonna get the Britax Marathon Series 7 with diamond-encrusted sippy cup holder and Kevlar belt. IT CAN WITHSTAND FORCES OF UP TO 12 G’S. Fucking $300 down the toilet, right then and there. And if you lack the foresight to space out your fuck trophies enough? You’re buying two, bitch. Or three.

That’s just the expense part. That’s not even the shittiest part of the whole deal. The worst part is installation. When we had our first kid, we had a car that was a 1997. It didn’t come equipped with the now mandatory child car seat latches in all new cars. So you had to install the car seat base by threading the seat belt through the base (horrible), then jumping on top of the base and pushing down on it like a suitcase with a dead body inside. Only the seat belt ALWAYS kept giving you slack, unlike all the other times the seat belt decides to ruin your day by fucking locking in when you don’t want it to. And you have to do all this in the back of your car when it’s 99 degrees out and your body is DYING.

And the worst part is, that first time you install the piece of shit is never the last. Once you install that fancyass toddler seat a year later, you are taking that thing out and putting it back in all the time. Gotta go pick up a Christmas tree? No room for the toddler seat, which is inexplicably the size of a battleship. You gotta take that shit out to put the tree in. Going on vacation? Well, you gotta drag that whole goddamn setup with you. Ever carry a child car seat more than five feet? AGONY. Picture the world’s most cumbersome object, now picture that object with a drugged hippo resting on top. That’s a child car seat. They’re impossible to carry. They’re impossible to place into any sort of bag for checking at the airport. They NEVER stay on top of the Smarte Carte for more than five seconds if you want to try to avoid carrying them. They barely fit in the rental car. I’ve dismissed entire vacation ideas outright simply because I have no interest in dealing with the fucking car seats.

And you should see what these things do to your poor car. They destroy the upholstery. And when you take one out of your car, what you find underneath is the horrifying Santorum left behind by a toddler with repugnant manners: animal cracker bits, moldy raisins, odd patches of unexplainable, permanent moisture. It’s like looking under the couch of a heroin addict. WHAT IS THIS GREEN THING? WAS THIS A BABY CARROT? GAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!! The upholstery of the car seat itself also becomes intolerable over time. You have to take it off and wash it, which means undoing all the strap mechanisms and then redoing them once the cover is clean, only you have NO IDEA what slots the straps are supposed to go through, and you sit there for a fucking hour outside your car trying to sort out how to get this piece of shit to work again. Then, five days later, your wife will ask you to readjust the straps because your kid is too big for the old strap placement, and you will curse your wife to infinity because she’s just sitting there on her CANDY ASS while you do all the backbreaking labor.

These fucking car seat people. They’ve made their ungainly plastic brat thrones mandatory in the American parenting landscape, and there’s nothing I can do about it, except to say FUCK YOU. I HATE YOU, GRACO AND CHICCO AND BRITAX AND MCCLAREN AND ALL OF YOU FUCKERS. AND I HATE YOUR SEATS. ONE NIGHT I’M GONNA BREAK INTO A BUY BUY BABY AND TAKE A SHIT IN EACH SEAT. DIE DIE DIE. FUCK.

We’re in the dreaded NFL offseason. There’s still no real football for months. You’re hurt. You’re angry. You’re hateful. We understand. At KSK, hating things is what we do best, which is why we have the recurring This Week In F–k You series, to soothe your white hot anger. This week: You.

By now, you’ve probably heard about NetFlix and their itemized pricing for their DVD delivery and streaming video services. Instead of paying $9.99 a month to enjoy movies both through the mail and your internet connection, you’ll now have to pay $15.98, effective September 1. This will amount to a price “hike” of about $6.03 per month, or just over 20 cents per day.

Naturally, you went apeshit.

You called it a “massive price increase,” and an act of greed, which seems a bit disingenuous when one considers recent events in the world right now. Never mind the fact that Netflix has gone on record with their annoyance of having to mail out actual DVDs to people, or that movie studios are going to fuck the company in the ass when it comes time to re-up their content deals. That’s a 60 percent hike!, you kept saying over and over. Because you are an idiot.

Now, NetFlix does deserve a lot of shit for announcing this as their “lowest prices ever” on their blog which, ironically, they don’t pay to maintain. And some of you will actually follow through on your threat to cancel your subscriptions, and you should if you find better options. But this is a #FirstWorldProblem if ever there was one. Don’t give yourself carpal tunnel while hammering out your white whine.

The monthly cost of both services together is still probably less than you would pay to see a first-run movie in a theater. Couple that with the facts that (a) movies that come into theaters now routinely suck donkey balls, (2) people in a theater (i.e.–YOU) don’t know how to shut the fuck up or stop using their (YOUR) cell phones and (d) you have to LEAVE THE FUCKING HOUSE to get there, and you tell me where you’re getting better value for your money. Can you wait two months to see Green Lantern? Don’t you wish you had?

And don’t even get me started on Redbox. If your life sucks enough that you can manage back-to-back trips to the grocery store, go ahead and rent a DVD out of a vending machine. I didn’t realize so many of you were thinking, “Yes, Blockbuster was great, but I really wish the store was just the size of a Coke machine, and people were buying cigarettes behind me while I waited in line.” Hey, it’s your life.

NetFlix doesn’t exist to just bring you cheap shit at your own leisure. It’s an evolving company trying to survive in a batshit marketplace while dealing with some of the greediest fucks on planet Earth. Granted, they should still fire everyone in their PR department, but to paint them with the same brush as Wall Street conglomerates is just fucking stupid.

And if none of that is enough to make you realize what a crybaby douche you’re being, go into your living room when you get home tonight and take a look at your DVR box. If you have one, you’re probably paying in the vicinity of three figures per month for that thing and the channels that come with it. And with all the other shit going on in the world right now, you’re complaining about paying another 20 cents a day.

Get over yourself.

We’re now in the dreaded post-draft stretch of the NFL offseason. There’s no football on, and there still won’t be for months, if not longer. You’re hurt. You’re angry. You’re hateful. We understand. At KSK, hating things is what we do best, which is why we have the offseason series, This Week In F–k You. This week: Footnotes.

Billy from Greenwich unleashed his new website on the world last week. And I’m not gonna bash Grantland because A) It’s nice to see ESPN allow a few “assholes” and “fucks” in their articles, B) It’s got some fun things to read, C) It’s not even a week old, and it’s going to need a few months before it turns into the despicable sports version of Slate we all hope it will be, and D) Ripping on the site will immediately cause people to accuse you of being a JELLUSS HATUR. However, checking out the site did remind me of something very important, and that is that I fucking hate footnotes. Or sidenotes. Or whatever the fucknotes. I hate them. Viciously.

When I was in school, I had to do a lot of history papers. And when you did a history paper, the teacher made you source all your quotes using footnotes or endnotes (your choice! Neat!), and made you stick a detailed bibliography in the back. I fucking hated doing this. It was worse than writing the paper itself. But there seemed to be a few kids in every history class who just LOVED amassing a giant bibliography and littering their papers with both endnotes AND footnotes. As if having a comprehensively sourced paper wasn’t enough for them, they had to go out and be all Ms. Overachiever by also throwing in the occasional footnote that let you know about some tangential historical tidbit (“4 – Incidentally, Churchill named the car Florencia, after a young lady he squired around in his formative years.”). They reveled in that shit. I saw pages of papers that had just two inches of main text and the remaining space allotted to fucking footnotes. I wanted to stab these people in the eye with my highlighter.

And that’s what I think about anytime I see some pretentious writer start doling out the fucking footnotes. Listen, asshole. If you think I should read something, just put it in the fucking text. [1] Any time I see a little superscript number above a sentence in the middle of paragraph I want to go find a Labrador and run it over. And any time I see multiple footnote citations in a single paragraph, I wipe my dick across the monitor. [2] And God help you [3] if you do it midsentence. I’m already reading your shit, asshole. Don’t go pissing me off by tossing little miniature bonus reading assignments in there in 8-point font. You are pushing your luck.

Because I know why you’re doing it. You think you’re so clever, so erudite, that you just HAVE to interrupt your story with a little EXTRA story or thought that shows off all the zany things you know. OOH! OOH! OOH, LOOGIT ME! I KNOW OF ONE OTHER FACT THAT ISN’T WHOLLY RELATIVE OT THE TEXT, BUT I’LL JUST DIE IF I DON’T SHARE IT WITH YOU!

Stop bombarding me with your stupid footnotes. It’s like putting a commercial in the middle of an article. And the worst part is… I CAN’T IGNORE THEM. I can’t simply move right past them and get on with my life. No, because I apparently have reading OCD, I feel immediately compelled to stop dead in the middle of the passage and skip down to the bottom. Oh, for more on this I should check out “Elston’s Standard Book Of British Birds”? Okay, thanks for the tip! I’ll do that sometime fucking never. It’s even worse on a web article where you have to scroll down to read the stupid thing before scrolling back up and trying to ascertain where you were (NOTE: Not a problem at Grantland, since they’re at least nice enough to throw them in the sidebar).

Now, I know a lot of people go all batshit for footnotes because David Foster Wallace used them. But there’s only one of that guy, and he’s fucking dead. He was a genius who wrote very long novels I almost certainly won’t ever read and just because you use footnotes and type on a typewriter and write with a fucking bandanna on your head doesn’t make you him. So fuck off and quit pestering me with all your little footnotes. Or at least have the goddamn common courtesy to make them endnotes and jam them at the back of the book, where I can happily ignore them. Because if I see one more oh-so-precious footnote sitting in the middle of something I’m reading, like an arrogant little turd, I will choke a bitch.

[1] Hi! I’m here to distract you! Did you know the Turkish Stingray has over a million stingers housed directly inside its genitals?

[3] Or Allah, if that’s your preferred term. HA HA CASUAL WITTY SIDEBARZ!!!

We’re in the dreaded NFL offseason. There’s still no real football for months. You’re hurt. You’re angry. You’re hateful. We understand. At KSK, hating things is what we do best, which is why we have the recurring This Week In F–k You series, to soothe your white hot anger. This week: Oprah Winfrey.

Oprah Winfrey’s final show is today. I mentioned it here, but it’s worth repeating: Oprah has basically built a career out of tricking people into being inspired by Oprah talking about herself. I don’t know why people get suckered into her bullshit. I really don’t. This is a woman who brings on Suzanne Somers and Jenny McCarthy to give you fucking medical advice. This is a woman who embodies every horrible stereotype about rich liberals when she brags to Duke students about how awesome it is to travel via private jet. This is a woman who puts a photo of herself on EVERY issue of her magazine, every month. And I’m supposed to think the end of her pissant daytime show deserves some kind of honor? The woman’s been honoring herself every day for a fucking quarter century.

Oprah’s slogan is “Live your best life,” but what her slogan really means is “Live Oprah’s life.” Read the books SHE likes. Get advice from HER doctors. Hang out with HER friends. Buy the things SHE buys. She’s not so much a human being as she is a walking infomercial, covered in seal blubber and topped with a poofy wig. Even her most personal revelations are calculated for maximum brand impact. Oprah lost weight AND ONLY SHE KNOWS THE SECRET TO HOW IT’S DONE! Oprah has a long-lost half sister AND NOW ALL WILL BE REVEALED. There’s a reason every piece of shit reality star out there lists “being the next Oprah” as their next goal, because being the next Oprah means whoring yourself out to interplanetary levels and somehow ending up being lauded for it.

We all make fun of Donald Trump all the time because Trump is constantly congratulating himself for his successes, be they real or imaginary (usually the latter). And because Trump is a fuckhead. But Trump is really no different from Oprah. Both have made a career out of climbing on rooftops and declaring their success, suckering in people who aren’t successful and have duped themselves into believing that some famous idiot can guide them in the right direction. Hey, Oprah’s rich and happy! She must know how I can get rich and happy! MAYBE SHE’LL GIVE MY ASS A CAR!

The reality is that it’s a con. You’re gonna have to pay taxes on that piece of shit Pontiac Oprah gave you, and you’re never going to be as rich as her. That twiggy cunt Gwynnie Paltrow isn’t gonna come over to your house and make you an organic beefsteak tomato salad that’s every bit as satisfying as eating a two-pound ribeye. Those are all lies. And the beauty of those lies is that the longer you, Mrs. Housewife Viewer, go without being happy or successful, the more desperate you become to believe it all. Oprah has succeeded in getting millions of American women to live vicariously through her, to cheer on her successes because they’ve convinced themselves that they somehow have relevance to their lives. That’s the amazing thing. This woman’s a fucking billionaire with no kids who travels around in a private jet, and yet her audience still believes they have something in common with her. They have more in common with Lenny fucking Dykstra.

You have Oprah to blame for the Kardashian sisters, and virtually any other celebrity out there who spends more time promoting themselves than they do offering you something of actual value. At least I can jerk off to Kim. The end of Oprah’s show signifies nothing more than the end of hourly show dedicated to a smug, disingenuous person who loves to show off all her famous friends and her incredible lifestyle. She’s like Simmons without the “Karate Kid” references. One time I was stuck at the hospital while my wife was having our second kid and I had to sit there and listen to her trade compliments with Ashton Kutcher and human tit cyborg Demi Moore, and I wanted to suffocate my child with his crib mattress to keep him from living in a world where people actually listen to Oprah Winfrey. Every guy has had to sit through at least one episode of this woman’s show at the behest of a wife/girlfriend/mother, and every guy has the same reaction to it: “I can’t believe anyone buys this lady’s bullshit! What the fuck?”

She can eat shit and die, for all I care. Fuck you, Oprah. Unless you spend your last hour fessing up and playing Miss Fistblaster with Gayle King, the only thing startling about your exit is just how little it matters to anyone but yourself. FUCK OFF.

We’re in the dreaded NFL offseason. There’s still no real football for months, or maybe even longer. You’re hurt. You’re angry. You’re hateful. We understand. At KSK, hating things is what we do best, which is why we have the recurring This Week In F–k You series, to soothe your white hot anger. This week: Couples that want to share Facebook accounts.

Some couples really, really like doing everything together. Everything. I once knew a couple that once held hands while both of them were taking a dump. That’s true. I guess there’s a place for it, even if that place isn’t a pair of men’s room stalls at Wrigley Field. Goofy wedding photos? Fine. Airbrushed tee shirts with both of their names on them? Whatever. But I draw the line at sharing the same Facebook account. That’s just gross and I won’t stand for it.

I’ve been married for a while now, and I can say that couples do not instantly become the same person once they get married (although they can become increasingly similar). They are two different people. And each person should have their own Facebook. It’s bad enough that I have to share an apartment, a bed, and money with my wife. But she can get her own damn Facebook. And she prefers it that way, because she is not insane.

And it’s not just the aesthetic of sharing a space meant for a single person. Believe it or not, I may only want to talk to ONE OF YOU. And it’s most likely so that I can complain about that other person. How can I talk shit about your manipulative cunt-faced wife or your paleolithic, know-it-all husband when you’re sharing the same accounts? I have a hard time being friends with people in real life as it is. Trust me, if one of those fringe pals ever friend-requested me with a joint Facebook page, that would be an easy decision: instablock and instafuckyou.

(And another thing, as commenter JD Fury just pointed out: If you have kids on Facebook, stop tagging your kids with your name. YOU ARE NOT YOUR BABY. STOP INFRINGING ON YOUR BABY’S PERSONHOOD!)

Some couples pass this off as some exhibition of their mutual affection and their whimsical approach to life. “Oh my gosh, look at both of us on the same facebook! We’re so silly! Nobody else does that! Hee hee hee!” I have a better explanation: mistrust. What better way to monitor someone else’s online activity than to share access to all of their online profiles? If my spouse knew that I had friends in, say, oh I don’t know…Cambodia, for instance, then I could see exactly who my sweet spousey-poo might take it from in the ass if we ever had a big blowout disagreement. It’s surveillance, hiding in plain sight. It’s like the PATRIOT ACT for your relationship.

Get your own Facebook. Don’t share with anyone else, and don’t let anyone share yours, especially your husband or wife. Because if you don’t, you’re a closet sociopath with daddy issues. And I don’t mean that personally. That’s just science.

We’re in the dreaded NFL offseason. There’s still no real football for months, or maybe even longer. You’re hurt. You’re angry. You’re hateful. We understand. At KSK, hating things is what we do best, which is why we have the recurring This Week In F–k You series, to soothe your white hot anger. This week: NordicTracks.

For the past few months, I’ve been working part-time for a moving company, mostly because President Obama’s Dick Joke Job Creation Act hasn’t been as fruitful as promised. It’s all right for a side job, albeit it suffers from the same weakness that all gigs in the service industry do: you have to deal firsthand with customers. And in large part, moving customers suck because:

- They tip poorly or not at all [Sorry, offering as gratuity a sixer of some piss beer like Miller Light isn't charming, much less acceptable]

- They seldom pack ["Hey, I left all our clothes in that 400-pound pine dresser. That's okay, right? You can take that as is?"]

- They are occasionally gay men who leave pornography in plain view.

- Some are husbands who get insecure that other men have to carry their shit, so they try too hard to help out, thus fucking things up in the process.

- They assemble IKEA armoires on the top floor of a three-floor townhouse with narrow-ass staircases. When presented with the reality that said armoire cannot possibly make it down said narrow-ass staircase with walls and armoire intact, they become defiant and insist you invoke some sort of blue-collar wizardry to make it happen. DIE ENTITLED YUPPIE SCUM!

- And worst of all, some of them own NordicTracks.

Fuck NordicTracks. Fuck them in their heavy, awkward, dust-encrusted hole of healthy minded resolutions past. I’d rather carry 10,000 grand pianos up a cliff face than haul another elliptical through someone’s house. The people who manufacture NordicTracks like to believe they’re on your side, dear mover, as many of these abominations have tiny wheels on the bottom. Of course, these wheels are positioned in such a way that they never do anything. Or, if they do work [never on carpet], they’re located on the slimmer side of the device, forcing you to have to support all of the object’s weight anyway.

I could deal with all this if I’d ever moved a treadmill or elliptical that I was sure had seen regular use. This has yet to happen. Why? Because the type of people who feel they need this type of equipment in their home think they’re too good or too smart to be suckered into getting a gym membership. “They’ll lock me into a two-year deal when all I want is some light cardio.” The misguided rich asshole soon discovers how difficult it is to work out in their home, their place of leisure and relaxation. Also, that the gym has far superior equipment than the $800 piece of shit they bought for their basement. That’s probably giving some of them too much credit; just as likely the workout machine is just another product of the crushing need to add one more expensive and ultimately useless home furnishing just because they can.

MOVE MY GIANT DUSTY MISSHAPEN ROCK OF LONG-ABANDONED GOOD INTENTIONS, PACK DOG! I NEED MY MECHANIZED ORNAMENT OF EXCESS!

But wait, it gets worse! Not only are NordicTracks weirdly shaped fucking abortions that you can’t pack around in the truck, but they always have some stupid extra challenge that no other object seems to have.

“Well, the guys who got it in here could only make it fit by carrying it through 12 backyards, which just happen to form a 700-yard sand pit with Dune worms and Tusken Raider snipers. Then they had to bribe a border guard with a child’s eyeball. Oh, and in our new place, it’d be great if you could place it on top of the chimney on the roof. That cool? Roof gyms are normal, right?”

If you own a NordicTrack, that’s fine. I don’t know you. You’re probably just as likely to be a decent person as anyone else. Just never move again in your life. Commit yourself to wherever it is you are now. Because otherwise I hope you get impaled on the handles and then your house collapses on top of you. And later a rescue dog pisses on your rotting corpse face.

Yes, I have a lot of time to think on this job.

We’re in the dreaded NFL offseason. There’s still no real football for months. You’re hurt. You’re angry. You’re hateful. We understand. At KSK, hating things is what we do best, which is why we have the recurring This Week In F–k You series, to soothe your white hot anger. This week: The NFL Schedulemaker.

The NFL schedule comes out tonight. Of course, it’s not actually a schedule so much as it a vague wet dream that will end up cruelly cockblocked by Jerry Richardson’s lust for money and his need to put uppity tackling ruffians in their proper place. In fact, seeing the schedule released now only serves to remind us that The Ginger Hammer and his coterie of 32 Art Modells have yet to GET THEIR FUCKING SHIT TOGETHER.

This angers me quite a bit. It’s been nearly two months since the beginning of this lockout and I’m getting extremely sick of dealing with NFL news that is 100% hypothetical (as opposed to the standard 95% hypothetical rate during normal working conditions). Here’s the schedule, PROVIDED THE LOCKOUT ENDS. Here’s a fun rumor about the Vikings being retarded enough to trade for Donovan McNabb, PROVIDED THE LOCKOUT ENDS. You can feel the strain of all these reports, as if talking about football enough will somehow will the business of football to start back up again.

At the end of this week, that Judge Judy lady in Minnesota could potentially end this stupid lockout by granting the NFL players an injunction and forcing the League back into business, which would be a pleasant development. But until then, FUCK YOU TO THE NFL for releasing this 16-week cocktease of a schedule knowing full well that the season is in danger. Thanks for being just that much more cruel in your wanton assholishness. Oooh, look! It’s the schedule! Here are all the awesome games we MIGHT play! Look! The Giants and gonna play the Jets on 9/11! It’s gonna be an incredibly emotional moment, with Cirque de Soleil performers reenacting the full attacks, unless we decide to undermine it by FUCKING YOU IN THE ASS! And there are the Patriots and Colts playing again in primetime! Wouldn’t it be so cool to watch them play, IN THEORY?!

Oh, and we’re thinking about adding Gus Johnson to our NFL Network broadcast booth! You’d like that, wouldn’t you? The way he gets all orgasmy and stuff on a routine third down? Well, we’re definitely CONSIDERING it, only to wrest that fantasy away when we stick with Bob Papa instead. Because our Thursday Night games should have all the feel of an NHL preseason game. And we’re gonna make all kinds of awesome changes to the game too! Headhunting will be LEGAL again! Offensive pass interference will become a reverse spot foul! Safeties will be allowed to use daggers! Running backs will get hoverboards! It’s gonna be awesome, IF WE DECIDE TO PLAY.

And did you know there are topless photos of Brooklyn Decker online? It’s 100% true. We saw them just now, and her breasts are AMAZING. Oh, did you want a link? I bet you’d really like a link, wouldn’t you? Well, MAYBE we’ll give you one. But first, we have to sit and have a series of weekly meeting about which tiny URL service to use to provide the link. And many of us won’t actually attend any of these meetings. We’ll just flit in and out of these meeting because we think constructive dialogue is just a circle jerk for spineless pussies.

Fucking NFL dickweeds. Don’t taunt us with a schedule unless you’re finally ready to sack up and play it.

NOTE: Here’s that Decker link.

We’re in the dreaded NFL offseason. There’s still no real football for months. You’re hurt. You’re angry. You’re hateful. We understand. At KSK, hating things is what we do best, which is why we have the recurring This Week In F–k You series, to soothe your white hot anger. This week: People who insist on using typewriters.

When was in high school (and for a time at college), I had to write the majority of my papers on a Smith-Corona electric typewriter. It was this big, heavy, blue piece of shit. It had a delete key that didn’t really work. If I typed on it and fucked up, I had to go use Wite Out and manually redact what I wrote. And I never revised or rewrote anything, because that would just mean typing the shit out all over again. It had disks so I could digitally store text documents, but they didn’t always work. And when I printed a digital file, the thing printed at the rate of a secretary who types 3 words a minute and takes breaks every quarter hour to have a smoke or get plowed by the boss.

I fucking hated this thing. When I had transferred colleges and finally had access to a computer lab at school (I didn’t have a computer of my own), I gleefully took that piece of shit and threw it away. Which is why I am both puzzled and filled with acidic ragefoam when I read about this bunch of pretentious, uppity, cuntfaced, dipshit hipster cockpullers who insist on using a manual typewriter for all their precious Writing with a capital W. If you figured a ludicrous “it’s a trend because I know a guy who does it” article like this was the byproduct of the New York Times, you would be correct:

“It’s about permanence, not being able to hit delete,” he explained. “You have to have some conviction in your thoughts. And that’s my whole philosophy of typewriters.”

There is so much there that pisses me off, I just want to drive to Williamsburg and spray random people with lighter fluid. As if not being able to delete the outlandish drivel you write somehow makes you Ernest fucking Hemingway. These people with computers. They don’t really stop to THINK before they write now, do they? That’s why I prefer the dulcet clattering of my vintage 1908 Weezleburg, which does NOT have a carriage return.

At a series of events called “type-ins,” they’ve been gathering in bars and bookstores to flaunt a sort of post-digital style and gravitas, tapping out letters to send via snail mail and competing to see who can bang away the fastest.

Are you throwing up yet? Do you want to find one of these type-ins and close the door on it and Hoover out all the oxygen until every last person inside lay dying in a puddle of the own vanilla-scented human waste? Because I do!

“You type so much quicker than you can think on a computer,” Ms. Kowalski said. “On a typewriter, you have to think.”

Don’t you just love that quote? As if everything ever written on a computer were somehow invalid because a computer is EASIER to use and, in fact, invites you to constantly revise and fine-tune what you’ve written so that it’s better than when you first typed it out.

I hate people like this. I hate these unbearably pretentious writer cunts who are like, “Well, I write in the writing barn from 5:30AM to 7:30AM every day, and on my Smith Corona. I couldn’t possibly compose any other way.” Listen, all you typewriting cuntessas out there: The shit you’re cranking out isn’t any better just because you have a steampunk fetish.

Typewriters are good at only one thing: putting words on paper.

And if you want to change those words with BETTER words, it fucking blows.

“If I’m on a computer, there’s no way I can concentrate on just writing, said Jon Roth, 23, a journalist who is writing a book on typewriters. “I’ll be checking my e-mail, my Twitter.” When he uses a typewriter, Mr. Roth said: “I can sit down and I know I’m writing. It sounds like I’m writing.”

“I use a typewriter because I don’t know how to close Chrome.”

In more than a dozen interviews, young typewriter aficionados raised a common theme. Though they grew up on computers, they enjoy prying at the seams of digital culture. Like urban beekeepers, hip knitters and other icons of the D.I.Y. renaissance, they appreciate tangibility, the object-ness of things.

Read that last sentence again. Fucking read it. I did not know there was a DIY renaissance going on. I want no part of it. If someone can easily do something for me, like make ketchup and bottle it, I’m fine with that. I don’t need to do that myself, because civilization has progressed to the point where I don’t need to. And anyone who decides to buck that progress does not deserve to be considered an icon. Not urban beekeepers. Not hip knitters. Not butter churn artisans. Not rooftop alchemists. FUCK THEM, and fuck their object-ness. I hope they get trampled to death by the oxen they rode in to their waiting job at Pastis.

When reached for an interview, Ms. Bervin was sitting in the cafe car of an Amtrak train, where she’d been clacking away on her own typewriter, a German Gossen Tippa from the 1940s, until her cellphone rang.

Could you imagine having to sit next to this idiot on a train? Even Peter King would have every right to blow that person apart. You brought a 90-pound typewriter onto a train and started clacking away for four hours? YOU MUST BE LASHED.

“One reason I type is it simply makes me feel closer to my words,” Mr. Caro said.

MY WORDS! MY PRECIOUS WORDS! SMELL THEM! TASTE THEM! BREATHE IN THEIR MUSKY MUSKINESS!

“It’s like being a cabinetmaker. It’s like laying down the planks. This is the way it’s supposed to feel.”

No, because cabinetmakers do actual fucking WORK. They don’t sit around their loft all day, typing fan letters to Bell & Evans.

You know why these people own typewriters, right? Because they’re better than you. You, Mr. Computer User. You don’t really “get” what it’s like to be a real writer. EVEN THOUGH COMPUTERS STILL REQUIRE ACTUAL FUCKING TYPING, WITH A KEYBOARD THAT HAS BUTTONS AND MAKES NOISES AND SHIT. You see, to truly know your craft, you have to pony up on eBay for some seventy-year-old piece of shit typewriter. And you must compose your prose on parchment! Yes, fine fine parchment, then roll up that parchment and seal it in hot wax with your family crest. Then your “King of Limbs” review will live on FOREVER.

This would be like a grocery store using only manual cash registers. Oh, sorry. We don’t swipe credit cards here. I need that actual CH-CHING sound, to let me know that my sale had objectness.

People who still use typewriters should fucking die.